


I should be running, but the heart's naive

by sumaru



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Royalty, Background Lysithea/Annette, Break Up & Make Up, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:27:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28298943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumaru/pseuds/sumaru
Summary: A wedding, five saints, no funeral.(Five years after their breakup, Felix is still not over Dimitri.)
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 10
Kudos: 26
Collections: 2020 Dimilix Exchange





	I should be running, but the heart's naive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [exbeekeeper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exbeekeeper/gifts).



> Thanks to CRJ, queen of breakups and makeups.

“Answer the question!”

“No. It’s stupid.”

Annette scrunches up her entire face. “It is my _wedding day_ , and you _will_ tell me where you would rather go for a date—“ she flips the magazine open again, and Felix glares over her shoulder so he won’t have to see the cover, “—A, spend the day at an art museum; B, have coffee at a local cafe; or C.”

She pauses, snapping the magazine up straight so there’s no missing who is on the cover now. “C, hit the King of Faerghus with my stupid little ceremonial sword rather than talk to him like a grown-up, which I am not, because I, Felix Fraldarius, am both a villain and a coward!”

“Give me that!” Felix gets a face full of magazine for his troubles. It drops into his hands like a wounded bird and he gently curls the pages tight. “And my sword isn’t stupid.”

“It’s a _little_ stupid,” Annette laughs. “But so are you and that’s why I love you.” Her dress is pin-perfect, but she smooths down the skirt one more time nonetheless. He doesn’t say anything about the way her hands tremble. “Showtime! Wish me luck out there!”

 _What for? Everything you have you made by yourself._ The feeling is suddenly too big. Sunlight prickles at the corner of his eyes and he manages instead: “You don’t need it.”

The wedding is beautiful, but he doesn’t cry.

They say it’s the hottest day of the year in Fhirdiad and Felix believes it. Not even the ancient, fortress-thick stones of Sainte-Cethleann’s Cathedral did much to dispel the heat brought on by the crowds of well-wishers and reporters. And there’s just so _many_ of them. Tabloids can’t get enough of Lady Annette of House Dominic, ever since she drunkenly clotheslined Sylvain into the Victor Museum of Modern Art’s infinity pool during their last state visit to Derdriu.

Unbidden, he can only think of blue eyes as clear as the winter skies of home; golden hair that outmatched even the sun itself. A laugh, ugly in its utter helplessness, the one Felix had wanted to hear for the rest of his life. _Annette has made quite a splash! Hasn’t she, Felix!_

The memory sours immediately. 

It’s been five years but Felix still loathes the journalists, the photographers, the entourage of paparazzi who had so viciously dug up the young seed of his and Dimitri’s relationship. Pushed so many cameras in his face that it had been like the tragedy of Lambert’s untimely death all over again, all clamouring to dissect them in lurid detail until Dimitri had snapped. And maybe he shouldn’t have poured all his anger onto Dimitri while he was unwell, but maybe Dimitri shouldn’t have broken that journalist’s jaw. All that came of it was the unsure roots of whatever they had were left to rot on the harsh ground of that horrible winter.

_“Heir to the throne snaps under pressure!”_

_“What dark secrets is the future King of Faerghus hiding? More deets in fleets.”_

_“Can young love save Prince Dimitri?”_

What had saved Dimitri was care and time. And Felix— Felix had not offered those well. Turns out, it doesn't happen like it does in the stories that Glenn used to read him. 

And turns out that they'll just write what stories they want about you. 

But today, under this brilliant summer sun, it’s Lysithea von Ordelia who’s the story of the year: renouncing her seat at the Alliance’s table to formally accept her position as co-chair at the prestigious Fhirdiad State University, and to wed her noble house to House Dominic, one of the most beloved in the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus.

Faerghus.

Because it’s just Faerghus, now. 

Dimitri has made many changes in the years Felix was gone. And if the magazine cover had any truth to it, Dimitri had changed, too. 

The summer heat turns to a boiling ache in his chest. He cannot breathe it out. He wishes— he wishes he could have been here in Fhirdiad to see these changes come about. He should have been here

“Hope you don’t have that sword with you! I’m not Dimitri, I don’t particularly enjoy being on the wrong end of it.” An arm drapes itself over his shoulder. A shock of red hair. “Hey, Felix!”

He fights back a smile. “Get off me, Sylvain.”

“Aw, as cranky as ever. I’ve missed you. Speaking of missing, have you talked to Dimitri yet? He’s—”

Dimitri might have enacted a number of governmental changes, but there will never be anything the people love more than the parade and fanfare of royalty.

Brass horns and banners announce the arrival of the King of Faerghus, modern suit draped over with the blues of his royal house, looking both regal and a little flushed at the attention being paid. Flashbulbs constellate all around the cathedral grounds as photographers close in and Felix is unmoored by it even at this distance; a little blinded by the light like he always has been, once upon a time the childish urge to duck to Dimitri’s side where, always taller, Dimitri would cast a shadow where Felix could find refuge.

Except now at Dimitri’s side walks Dedue Molinaro, longtime friend and celebrated diplomat. The one who had stayed to build something. Something ugly flares in Felix and, mutely, he feels Sylvain lightly grip his arm but— it dies out just as fast, weighed down by all the things Felix can’t help but take in, all at once.

Dimitri’s hair has indeed grown long, pulled back so the trailing ends sculpt his cheeks, flush with such health and a gentleness Felix hasn’t seen in years, he has to clench his hands to still them, fingers warm with wanting to just touch as freely as he used to be able to. And even from here, Felix can see that Dimitri hands are rough from the year Dimitri had spent working with farming collectives.

So much, so much has happened without him. As children, he had listened to Dimitri speak of the future of Faerghus with such passion it had felt like his heart had been swept to sea and he had let it go gladly. Dimitri had glowed with the promise of what their storied houses could do once more, of what history Blaiddyd and Fraldarius could build together. Felix had _believed_ in something. All just memories now, with no new ones to take their place.

How had he let the ground between them freeze over in this way?

“Lord Gautier! Over here! Can we get a word from you about the wedding? We hear you made quite a speech!”

Sylvain puts himself between Felix and the approaching reporters. He winks at Felix as he speaks to their cameras. “If you’re looking for a _splash_ —”

Felix quickly slips away.

The cathedral grounds are known to him. Growing up, they all used to clamber among the rows of statues as they tried to read the names of the saints lettered in fading brass across the plinths. Cethleann, Cichol, Macuil, Indech; Seiros with her great flamberge that Felix used to love to run his fingers down the wavy blade. 

Sainte-Seiros is no longer as imposing and as tall as he remembers her; she seems almost tired and small, now, standing eternal guard as she is here.

“Felix!” 

Of course. All the things known to him, are known to Dimitri, too. But Dimitri’s eyes are wide in surprise, a little concerned. Felix bristles. 

“What did Sylvain say to you.”

“Ah.” The flush on Dimitri’s cheeks really shouldn’t look this charming. “He said that Ingrid had something urgent to discuss near the saints.” A pause. “Did you by any chance bring your ceremonial sword? Not that something of that kind is urgent, but perhaps—”

“Stop it.” Everything feels agonising. After all that had been said and done, how could Dimitri trade pleasantries like they hadn’t filled the chasm between them with ice. “Stop wasting time here.”

“It’s not time wasted. I’ve—” Dimitri stands in the shadow of Sainte-Cethleann and the fading summer sun lances through her marble spring garland, crowning him in roses of light. “I’ve missed you, Felix.”

Dimitri’s first white rose garland had been from Felix, still so young that he could only clumsily weave the branches together instead of the proper traditional plait. It had barely held, but Dimitri had worn it all Garland Moon anyway, even as it fell to pieces, declaring it his first and forever favourite crown.

And Felix, with a fierceness that aches behind his eyes, misses Dimitri, too.

But it’s too much. The sudden wave of want is enough to drown him; the words just get swallowed up. And: “Things have changed.”

“Have things changed so much that we cannot even talk to each other?”

“Then say your peace and be done with it.”

He expects the same stubbornness to rise in Dimitri. He doesn’t expect the sudden gentleness of his mouth. “Has it not been change that we have always sought? Wanting to do better than what we have simply been given? For our people. For us.”

A deep breath as Dimitri gathers himself, and how tall he holds himself now makes Felix want to reach for him, see for himself exactly how much more Dimitri has grown. This close, he can see the endless sky in Dimitri’s eyes, calling him home.

It hurts, it does. “For us.”

“Can I not make it up to you, Felix?”

And the thing is: Dimitri can. There are already a thousand things that Dimitri has done that has laid out a path any man would be proud to walk; there are already a thousand things that Felix wants to ask for, if he trusted himself, if he didn’t mistrust the anger and fear he once had that had spilled over.

“Felix, I’m truly sorry—”

“You have nothing to apologise for.” Felix feels his breath all in a rush. “The words don’t mean anything when—” he sweeps his arms out, then drops them in frustration when they don’t come close to encompassing it all. “When you’ve already done enough,” he finishes. 

In the place that anger had once lived, something else had grown. “I’ve missed you, too,” Felix says, voice low.

Gold, amber, a bruising purple. The setting sun paints Dimitri’s face but it’s him who shines even brighter. Felix is mortified by how much he wants to just hold Dimitri’s hand, when he looks like this, outlasting the sun even now. 

He looks aside. “I brought my father’s ceremonial sword, but left it in the hotel room. It seemed excessive, given the circumstances.”

“When has a sword ever been excessive to you, Felix.” Dimitri’s mouth is crinkled. He’s _teasing_. Felix’s feels his face go red hot. “I remember when we were in high school and you brought a katana to class—”

It turns out, he might have been too embarrassed to take Dimitri’s hand, but embarrassed just enough to kiss him like this, with the sun sinking warm into the earth. A sun under which to grow something new and good and sure.

And the answer, later circled and handed back to Annette, C:

_Where does not matter, any place will do to make something more than just memories._

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, I lied. There's a funeral for Sylvain's dignity.
> 
> Happy Dimilixmas!


End file.
